This place—this grotesque (lovely) hollow of viscera and flesh, of all-seeing eyes and sinuous tendrils which twine, ready to slip about the neck and constrict, if only given the chance—is a construct of Alice's mind. It is all of her anger and every last ounce of her grief, an illusion to him, but something to her (once upon a time, he'd said: all madness has its purpose, its root), a mechanism with which to protect herself, to defend herself where...
No one else stood to.
The magic is potent, a voice echoing with all its fury through the cavernous deep, and were he not so focused upon Alice herself, he might have become immersed in it, lost to the spell which resonated so profoundly with his other self. But Alice is falling, collapsed to the ground, panicked as she gasps for breath, and before the King realizes the action wholly for himself, he is kneeling beside her, the necklace which adorns his shoulders gently aglow as he sees it activated upon impulse.
For every faceted stone upon the link of gold, a blade of light unfurls at his back, each and every one cutting through the dark until twelve come together, forming his wingspan. And it is then that he brings his wings of light cascading down, forming a shroud about them to block all else out. For her, the glow of the magic is a gentle radiance—a small light in the dark, like the nightlight she kept at her bedside far away from here—resonant of his own calm, his head bowed as he speaks: ]
You must find it, Alice, your path. [ She's withheld it all this while, her upset and her hurt, and for so very long Sion has kept a respectable distance, attested to his vows, but for no longer. Right now, she is in need of his help. ] Focus on the draw of your breath, steady yourself, and stop the spell and its root.
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This place—this grotesque (lovely) hollow of viscera and flesh, of all-seeing eyes and sinuous tendrils which twine, ready to slip about the neck and constrict, if only given the chance—is a construct of Alice's mind. It is all of her anger and every last ounce of her grief, an illusion to him, but something to her (once upon a time, he'd said: all madness has its purpose, its root), a mechanism with which to protect herself, to defend herself where...
No one else stood to.
The magic is potent, a voice echoing with all its fury through the cavernous deep, and were he not so focused upon Alice herself, he might have become immersed in it, lost to the spell which resonated so profoundly with his other self. But Alice is falling, collapsed to the ground, panicked as she gasps for breath, and before the King realizes the action wholly for himself, he is kneeling beside her, the necklace which adorns his shoulders gently aglow as he sees it activated upon impulse.
For every faceted stone upon the link of gold, a blade of light unfurls at his back, each and every one cutting through the dark until twelve come together, forming his wingspan. And it is then that he brings his wings of light cascading down, forming a shroud about them to block all else out. For her, the glow of the magic is a gentle radiance—a small light in the dark, like the nightlight she kept at her bedside far away from here—resonant of his own calm, his head bowed as he speaks: ]
You must find it, Alice, your path. [ She's withheld it all this while, her upset and her hurt, and for so very long Sion has kept a respectable distance, attested to his vows, but for no longer. Right now, she is in need of his help. ] Focus on the draw of your breath, steady yourself, and stop the spell and its root.
[ He would reach her, he would. ]
Will it away, as I know only you are able.